


In Which Hank Lures an Elder God into His Home

by OhNoMyBreadsticks



Series: Of Gods and their Humans [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Barebacking, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) is a Little Shit, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Fluff, I am not a wildlife expert ya'll, M/M, Mentioned Elijah Kamski, Nudity, References to Depression, also still no animal stuff here move along, but with magic, elder forest gods, mentioned Fowler, modern day AU, possibly incorrect descriptions of fox behavior, ya gotta wait till chapter 2 for that tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-11 17:20:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17451140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhNoMyBreadsticks/pseuds/OhNoMyBreadsticks
Summary: Hank Anderson knows he's washed up. He's an old cop with a shitty assignment, and he goes home every night to drink beer and watch TV alone (Sumo doesn't count, he's a dog). But he's pretty sure he hasn't lost his mind. Yet.Seeing a naked guy in his backyard with a tail and fluffy ears might be making a strong case against that though.(Can be read as a stand-alone)





	1. The Fox

**Author's Note:**

> So did everyone enjoy that one paragraph about Niles' brothers in the last fic? Yeah?? Good, cause I wrote a whole 10k about one of the Connors. To those of you who commented about him last time, I see you and I appreciate you <3
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this series so far, I'm excited to see if you can spot the connections here ;D And if you're new here, welcome to my extremely self indulgent AU, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> My wonderful beta [thislittlekumquat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thislittlekumquat/pseuds/thislittlekumquat) on the job again helping me brainstorm and also fixing all of my commas like a saint <3 <3

It’s a late night and Hank has brought his work home with him. Again. Fuck it, as he always says; it’s not like there’s anyone around to care that he’s got missing persons reports strewn across the kitchen table. There’s always some idiot or other that’s getting lost in the woods or running away from home, and apparently Hank’s  _ just  _ washed up enough that it’s his job to find them. Fowler can’t bring himself to fire Hank from the police department, but he doesn’t trust him to handle cases with any sort of danger. Hank groans as he looks down at the forlorn spread of pictures on the table - half of these people are dead, and most of the rest of them probably don’t want to be found. 

 

He’s jolted out of his thoughts by the butt of a soft head against his leg. “Yeah, yeah, sorry Sumo, dinner’s coming,” he says, chuckling as he pats the top of that big fluffy head and gets a wet nose against his palm for his troubles. At least Sumo doesn’t care about his work, and he’s what matters, at this point. 

 

Hanks turns from the kitchen table to the pantry, and rifles around to get Sumo’s kibble out. It’s stupid and sentimental, sure, but he likes feeding his dog at the same time he usually eats his own dinner. He pours a generous helping into the bowl and pats at Sumo as he chows down. Damn dog eats better than he does, and whose fault is that? Hank doesn’t even grace himself with an answer to that obvious rhetorical question. He’s got leftover takeout in the fridge but he’s not even hungry at this point in the evening. Probably because of all the garbage he ate at lunch.

 

Hank grabs a beer instead and turns to get back to ‘work’ (mostly just staring sadly at the fliers and wondering if he should even wake up in the morning) when his eyes catch sight of something in his backyard. Two glowing pinpricks in the darkness, that trot forward into the glow the kitchen window throws, revealing a … fox? Yeah, that’s definitely fox shaped, not that Hank’s ever properly seen a fox in his backyard before. But he knows what a fox is  _ supposed _ to look like, and this one’s a weird color, like somebody dipped it in the dirt or singed its paws or something. Instead of a tawny red, it’s brown with dark splotches all over, especially on the ears. 

 

Hank curses and turns to grab his phone - no one’s gonna believe him otherwise - and nearly spills his whole beer when he turns around. The fox is gone, but there’s a whole-ass naked guy standing there instead. Still those same shining eyes, but with a grin that could blind you if you stared too long. 

 

Maybe he should stop drinking, Hank thinks morosely, it this is what his brain is gonna taunt him with.

 

The guy in his backyard is just staring at him, head cocked curiously like he’s never seen a slightly overweight man who probably needs a shower and a shave. Hank is staring right back, because he’s definitely never seen a naked guy with a tail and fucking fluffy ears on top of his head. They stand there, locked in this strange moment for much longer than the moment itself should last, until Hank breaks it by lifting up his phone to try and take a picture again for real. Maybe he’s hallucinating, and through the camera lens he’ll just see a fox again. Unfortunately, all he sees is a blinding flash of light, because of course he hasn’t turned the auto-flash off. By the time the spots clear from his eyes the fox and the guy are gone. Or maybe the fox guy is gone. Hank isn’t sure which of those two options is more reassuring. 

 

Hank sets his phone down and scrubs his free hand over his eyes before taking a long swig of his beer. “What the fuck was that?” he asks, looking down at Sumo like he’ll have an answer. He doesn’t, of course, because he’s a damn dog. But with the way Hank’s night has been going so far, who knows? Maybe Sumo’s gonna start talking to him like some sort of roommate. He shakes his head and takes another drink, sitting down heavily at the kitchen table. It’s going to be a long night, but hey, tomorrow morning is always gonna be worse. It was the only motivation he could muster any more, and it wasn’t even that good.

 

* * *

 

The next night, Hank turns on the back porch light and makes sure his cell phone is in his back pocket. If the fox comes back, he’s going to damn well get a picture of it. But there’s nothing, not even a normal fox or a rabbit or literally anything else. It’s just Hank and Sumo, and the strange feeling of a third presence that’s just out of sight. He keeps whipping his head around to look out the window at weird times, like he’s going to catch whatever it is off guard. An exercise in futility, clearly, because even then all Hank gets to see is the rustle of the wind through the shrubs at the end of his property. Not exactly what he was hoping for.

 

* * *

 

The night after that he turns the porch light off again, half because he’s pretty sure the light was scaring the fox off, and half because he’s too cheap to waste electricity on a proverbial wild goose chase. He’s got work on the table and the game on the TV, but Hank can’t keep his eyes from wandering out to the backyard every couple minutes. There’s even a bit of a lead on one of the missing person cases, but he can’t bring himself to care. Something about that encounter with the fox has got Hank’s brain in a vice-grip, and he’s pretty sure if he doesn’t get some kind of closure he’s going to end up on one of these missing person fliers.

 

Just as he’s directed his attention back to work, the soft rumble of sports commentators a distraction from the silence of his home, Hank catches a glimpse of movement outside. The fox is slinking its way out of the bushes, head down and crouched low, caution written over every line of its body. ‘He’s not afraid, he’s just being smart’ Hank thinks to himself, failing to see any sort of fear in the animal’s posture. He doesn’t move from his chair, too worried to even reach for his phone for fear of startling the fox. Satisfied that there’s no trap in place, the fox finishes its approach on Hank’s house and sits down on its haunches, ears perking up as it looks towards the house with a knowing tilt of the head.

 

For a few breathless moments, Hank is just staring at the fox from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table. The fox remains stubbornly a fox, so he decides to chance it, slowly standing from his chair without breaking eye contact. The slow rise makes his joints groan in complaint, and Hank momentarily regrets every single day of his office job. There’s no movement in the backyard as he approaches the kitchen window, effectively recreating that first night (just without the beer he very much wishes he had right now). Except tonight the eyes staring back at him are nestled in dark fur, glowing slightly in the reflected light from the kitchen. The fox blinks and tilts its head the other way, as if it’s gauging Hank’s interest in this silent conversation. Hank can’t help the slight chuckle that escapes as a result, and with a flick of its tail, the fox scurries away. Goddammit. He hadn’t even gotten his phone out yet.

 

* * *

 

The next week drags on in much the same way, and Hank is starting to get exhausted from all the tension of waiting for this damn animal to show up in his backyard. People at work are starting to notice, and that means it’s gotta be pretty bad. He actually broke down and did some research on foxes - apparently they  _ can _ come in that color, it’s just kinda unusual. Some of the pages he visited mentioned that you should be careful about the kind of trash left out, since foxes are scavengers. So of course that means he’s about to do something you absolutely should never do (wow, shocker) -  bundling up in his old DPD hoodie and taking the cheap meat he picked up from the corner store out with him onto the back stoop.

 

Hank leaves the porch light off as part of the silent agreement he’s built with the rascally little creature, and walks out into his own yard to set one of Sumo’s dishes out into the center of it. It’s far enough away from the porch that it would be impossible for him to reach it in time to actually do anything to the fox, which is kind of the point. He shuffles back to the porch stoop and settles in with a soft grumble, the remaining meat in the bag by his feet. Now to wait. Hank’s lucky he’s a patient man, patience being a skill that was only honed in the years he spent as a beat cop waiting at stakeouts and observation points. That’s a memory he hasn’t thought about in a long time. For good reason, probably.

 

Hank is snapped out of his thoughts eventually by the sound of soft snuffling in the tall grass at the far end of the yard. Probably mostly weeds, but the shrubs don’t seem to mind, so he hasn’t done anything about them. The fox is there, clearly perturbed at the fact that Hank has broken their little nightly ritual. If he didn’t know better, he’d say that’s annoyance in the flick of the ears and the quick swish of the tail. Uselessly, he gestures at the bowl as if to invite the fox to eat. It clearly wants to, its nose is going a mile a minute snuffling up all those delicious meat smells. Well, delicious for a fox, Hank supposes, it’s not like raw meat is exactly his go-to favorite smell.

 

They lock eyes again, man and beast, and Hanks feels as though he can barely breathe for the tension of it as inch by inch the fox slinks towards the bowl. There’s a certain measure of trust in those brown eyes, as if it’s weighing all of their previous interactions against the likelihood that this meat is a trap. The quiet snap of teeth and slurp of meat getting suctioned into the fox’s mouth feels more like a victory than that kind of noise has any right to be. But Hank is pleased with himself as he watches the animal eating, knowing that he succeeded in getting one step closer to … well, actually, he’s not absolutely sure what the point of this whole exercise is. To befriend this wild little fox in the hopes that he’ll be able to prove it’s just a fox? To prove he can befriend something? That’s a bummer of a thought. 

 

Hank decides not to think it tonight. Tomorrow’s always going to be worse, why not save it for then.

 

* * *

 

He sits on his back porch every night except the ones it rains, and slowly, slowly, more slowly than Hank thought possible, the fox gets closer. Some nights it will sit down in front of the bowl when it’s finished eating, as if to signal that a little bit more closeness is acceptable now. The next night Hank will move the bowl forward a bit more, closer to the porch, and the fox will act as if this is the greatest betrayal ever done by man. The little guy’s got a sense of humor, Hank begins to realize, and he’s not sure if that’s just his imagination. He does have quite the little smirk, mouth quirking up at the sides to show rows of sharp teeth. When Hank’s feeling brave he smiles back, and this time the fox doesn’t run away.

 

* * *

 

It’s starting to get chilly in Detroit, and Hank is considering just not going outside tonight. His back hurts, and he barely has any scraps left, and this whole thing is just getting a little tiresome, if he’s going to be perfectly honest. After weeks of this back and forth, he’s pretty sure he must have imagined the naked guy in his backyard, and he’s so close to the fox now but still so damn far away. He’s still convinced that if he put his hand out he’d get bitten for his trouble. And Hank really doesn’t want to have to ask for sick leave because he was stupid enough to get bitten by a fox. Do foxes have rabies? This one doesn’t look sick, at least. If anything, its coat has gotten way glossier and fluffier since Hank started feeding it meat every day.

 

It’s sitting outside now, watching him through the glass door to the patio, butt still firmly planted on the grass instead of the porch itself. “Fine, fine, I’m coming” Hank grumbles, guilted into grabbing the dish and filling it with the remaining meat. He draws the hood of his jacket up and toes into his old sneakers, stepping out into the cold night air with a shiver. The fox retreats with a cautious swish of its tail, but wastes very little time approaching again as soon as Hank sets the bowl down. He drops onto the well-worn step, now a familiar perch, and crosses his arms to retain as much heat as possible while his little friend begins to chow down. The meal is over too soon, apparently, as the fox looks up at Hank and gives an irritated little chitter when the bowl is empty.

 

“Sorry bud,” Hank snorts softly, “Work was rough today, I forgot to stop by the corner store on my way home.” The fox licks its chops with an unsatisfied smacking sound, but tilts its head curiously as Hank lets out a tired sigh. It really has been a weird week, and he’s tired down to his bones. Somebody’s been on Fowler about that missing guy who Hank is pretty sure just went camping and never came back, but whoever it is has enough connections or money that it’s getting harder for Fowler to cut Hank some slack. Maybe he’ll actually lose his job over this one, who knows.

 

Soft paws pad across the cement block that surrounds the steps, and there’s suddenly a warm presence on Hank’s knee. He looks down with wide eyes to find the fox with its head rested softly there, big brown eyes looking up at him like they’re daring him to ruin this moment. 

 

“Hey buddy…” Hank murmurs, unfreezing slightly to take a few calming breaths. “You cold too?” The fox certainly doesn’t  _ feel _ cold, warm little huffy breaths hitting Hank’s leg as it stands there, patiently waiting for him to do something. There’s never going to be a better moment, so Hank decides to risk it, slowly raising his hand and gently setting it down on top of the fluffy head. The fox watches him cautiously but doesn’t make any sudden movements, its eyes closing in satisfaction as Hank’s hand encases the top of its head. Holy shit, Hank thinks to himself, this was so worth it. His phone has long since been regularly abandoned in the house, so there’s not even any way he can kid himself into thinking this was all to get proof to show off at work. No, Hank just really wanted to pet the fox.

 

He’s not sure how long they stay like that, his hand slowly stroking up and down the little head on his knee, but it’s nicer than a lot of the evenings Hank’s spent on his own in recent memory. Like petting Sumo while he watches TV, but with all the excitement of a newly acquired friendship. There’s no way to explain it, but it feels special when those twinkling brown eyes look up at him. The spark of intelligence and warmth is undeniable, at least in the privacy of his own thoughts. Eventually though, some noise in the distance catches the attention of the fox, and its head perks up out of Hank’s grasp, ears twitching curiously. In a flurry of movement it’s gone, tail disappearing with a flick into the bushes at the end of the yard. 

 

Hank sits there on the stoop for several minutes before the chill gets to him and he has to go inside. It just feels like a really surreal moment, and if it weren’t for Sumo trying to snort the stray brown hairs off his pants the minute he’s back in the house, Hank might think it was just another daydream. He has to change his pants to get Sumo to calm down, the big old St Bernard finally flopping onto the sofa with a tired boof. Hank joins him after grabbing a beer from the fridge, letting his eyes disengage from reality as the latest underdog team makes their bid for victory on the TV. 

 

Huh. What the hell is he supposed to do now?

 

* * *

 

Hank’s honestly not sure if when he goes out the next night anything will have changed, but it seems like that is absolutely the case. As soon as the glass door to the patio slides closed behind him, the fox is there on the stoop, looking up at him with an expectant grin. “Hungry tonight, huh?” Hank says with a chuckle, more pleased than he’d like to admit that they don’t have to play around with moving the bowl any more. He simply sets it down in front of the step and waits for the fox to move its head out of the way before pouring the meat in, stepping back and leaning against the porch railing as he watches it eat. It’s satisfying, in a way, to be so close and know that the little guy is comfortable enough to just focus on eating. After the meal is done, the fox even slinks closer and demands a few more pats before leaving for the evening. Hank could get used to this, he supposes. 

 

* * *

 

Another week passes, and Hank is sure the initial reason he started trying to befriend this fox must have been bullshit. It’s just a regular old fox - sure it’s got a rare coloring and pretty little eyes, but it’s just an animal. A really intelligent animal, but an animal nonetheless. He had been hallucinating, that night when he thought he saw a man, just a byproduct of being sleep deprived and overworked. Hank takes the time to put on a beanie before stepping onto the porch tonight, because it’s damn cold out, and looks over to where the fox usually sits to wait for him, and the bowl slips from his hand with a crash - 

 

There’s the naked guy sitting cross legged in the grass, just a few paces away from the porch stoop. His pointed ears twitch as he tilts his head curiously at Hank, but the smile he’s wearing is familiar. As if to prove the point Hank’s brain is trying to comprehend and solidify, a fluffy brown tail flicks into view from behind the man, coming to rest (thankfully for Hank’s dignity) across his lap. 

 

“I’m sorry to startle you,” he says, voice smooth and confident, with a strange quality to it that Hank can’t quite place. “You seem to drop things every time we properly see each other.” He sounds like he’s not very sorry at all, a hint of a chuckle at the edge of his sentence.

 

Hank’s still trying to process what he’s seeing, and his jaw moves slowly as he tries to speak and still can’t. He spreads his hands out in a gesture that’s a strange mix of ‘help me’ and ‘look man I’m at a loss here’. The man sitting on the grass has the decency to not do more than snicker at that, speaking again. “Would it help if I told you my name? So we can be properly introduced?”Hank nods slowly. Maybe if he has a name it will seem like less of a strange dream. He never was good at coming up with names for things. 

 

“My name is Connor,” the fox says with another sharp smile, “I’m the god of nature that flourishes among humanity.” That finally manages to draw a noise out of Hank, and he finds that to his disbelief he’s laughing. Slowly at first, but then it’s progressing into a full blown wheezing laugh that has him leaning on the doorframe for support.

 

“I’m sorry, you’re the  _ what _ ??” Hank gasps out as soon as he can straighten up slightly. This is all so ridiculous, he supposes his body just couldn’t decide what to do about it and settled on laughter as a suitable avenue for pent up confusion to exit via. 

 

“I’m a god,” Connor insists, looking a little put out by Hank’s reaction. “Come on, I have a tail and ears, I’m clearly not a human!” Hank is wiping tears away from the corners of his eyes as his breathing evens out, and he shakes his head again in disbelief. “Nah, you’re way too goofy looking to be a god. Even if I believed in gods and shit, which I definitely don’t. No way,” he says, even as he walks forward to sit on the stoop opposite a man who clearly has animal ears popping out of his head.

 

Connor’s frown has deepened into a full-blown pout now, the ears tilting downwards into his hair. “You’re being really ungrateful about this!” he says. “I barely use my human form at all any more, and you have the gall to call me ‘goofy looking’? I’ll have you know I was worshipped once!” The way he says it and then breaks eye contact makes Hank think that the “once” is the important word in that sentence. He raises his hands up in mock defeat, replying, “Sorry, sorry….Connor, right? Didn’t mean to insult you, it’s just, a lot, ya know. Have you really been eating meat out of my dog’s extra dish for the last like...month?” Connor nods, his ears rising only a fraction of the way up. He still seems put out by ‘goofy’ but he’s taking the apology at least. 

 

“Yes, and you’ve been very nice about it up until now,” Connor says, narrowing his eyes at Hank in a way that makes him want to burst out laughing again. “I thought you would be happy to be able to talk to someone that doesn’t have a snout, but maybe I was wrong.” He’s clearly still pouting, but maybe teasing a little bit at this point as well.

 

“Hey, Sumo is great for conversation,” Hank replies with a lopsided grin. “I won’t have you being down on him.” 

 

That gets Connor to perk all the way up, his face brightening with excitement. “Is Sumo your dog’s name? Can I meet him?? Dogs are my favorite!” he exclaims, and his tail is flicking to match the tone. Hank’s not sure if he should be watching, given what it’s (slightly ineffectively) covering. He settles for looking at Connor’s smile, but that’s almost as bad, because it’s blinding in its sincerity.

 

“I mean, I guess. Won’t that be a problem, what with you being a…..fox and all?” Hank asks, forcing himself to say the words out loud despite them sounding absolutely ridiculous. It’s less ridiculous when he looks at Connor’s ears, twitching quite naturally above his head of dark brown hair. Connor shakes his head, insisting, “No, no, animals love me! Pleaaaaaase?” 

 

He’s practically whining, and his eyes have gone all big and brown and soft. Hank is ashamed of how fast that gets to him. He definitely is not letting Connor use puppy dog eyes on him. “Sure, sure, come in I guess,” Hank finally relents, standing up with a little groan and heading for the glass door back into the house. Connor is up on his feet and following in a flash, making Hank even more aware that he is, in fact, still completely naked.

 

Sumo doesn’t seem to mind that, plodding over to them as soon as he hears the door slide open. Once he gets a whiff of whatever Connor smells like, Sumo is all over him, tail thumping and big tongue slurping all over his hands. Connor, for his part, does seem genuinely delighted to pet Hank’s disgusting drooly dog. He coos and speaks in little baby-talk bursts as he rubs his hands all over Sumo’s ears and down under his jaw, telling him what a good boy he is. Hank does his best not to watch the way Connor’s tail is mirroring Sumo’s - swishing back and forth excitedly over that incredible expanse of ass and legs. His skin is pale and un-marred by anything except random splashes of moles and beauty marks, like someone spritzed him with dark paint and forgot to wipe it away. 

 

Hank feels very much like a dirty old man every time he looks at Connor, and he makes a concerted effort not to do it. Just look at Sumo instead, he thinks, not at the incredibly hot young man standing naked in your kitchen that just so happens to have ears and a tail and…. Oh goddammit he’s losing it again. It’s weird though, because there’s something distinctly non-sexual about all of this. Maybe it’s the way Connor carries himself, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to just waltz around without any pants. Or maybe it’s the fact that despite his outward appearance of being, what, late twenties, or maybe early thirties, Connor doesn’t feel young. At least not young enough to make Hank feel like a total pervert. 

 

Hank leans awkwardly back onto the counter, feeling like a third wheel thanks to his own damn dog. He’s not sure if it would be rude to step away and get a beer, but luckily Sumo gets tired before he has to make that choice. The old dog pads over to his water dish to make a mess of his mouth and the floor before heading for the sofa - their usual routine for the evening. 

 

Connor doesn’t follow him though, straightening up and wiping dog slime on his thighs without the slightest hesitation. “Oh shit, sorry, let me get you a towel or something,” Hank says, suddenly realizing he’s being kind of a shitty host. Connor just shakes his head and smiles again, insisting, “No, no, I have to go now anyways. Thank you for letting me meet your dog, I really like Sumo. I hope I can come back and visit again.”

 

That last sentence sounds like a question, but Hank’s pretty sure it’s a promise instead. So he just nods and says, “I mean, it’s not like I mind the company. I’m the weirdo that’s been sitting on my porch trying to bribe you with corner store beef.” That startles a laugh out of Connor, and Hank curses internally. He has a really cute laugh. Goofy, like all the rest of him, but clear and joyful in a way that warms Hank’s lonely heart. It also highlights the fact that all of his teeth are slightly pointed in a way that’s distinctly non-human. That should be a turn-off, he knows, but Hank can’t bring himself to care. He really is in too deep. 

 

“I certainly hope you won’t be depriving me of my nightly snack any time soon,” Connor says with an impish little wink. “I’ve come to look forward to it!” 

 

Hank can’t do much more than shrug helplessly and say, “I’ve already got more of the stuff in the fridge, if you really think it’s so tasty.” Connor nods and flashes him that dangerous smile again, saying, “I’m glad that’s settled. I’ll look forward to seeing you again tomorrow, Hank Anderson.” 

 

He’s gone before Hank can do much more than open his mouth in surprise, sliding open the door to the outside and bounding away as a blur of brown and black fur. Hank runs a shaky hand through his hair, feeling his cheeks burning uncomfortably. “He’ll  _ look forward _ to seeing me…” he mutters, trying to process this without sounding like some kind of hopeless teen in a rom com. It takes him another full minute to finally realize that Connor had guessed his name from the badge laying on the table.

 

“Dammit Hank, pull yourself together,” he says as he pulls in a deep breath through his nose and straightens up, looking over to where Sumo is still lazily watching his owner embarrass himself. Hank falls back onto what he’s comfortable with, grabbing a beer from the fridge and flopping down onto the sofa in front of the television. He turns it on, but his eyes aren’t watching what’s happening on the screen. Instead he’s thinking about Connor, and the fact that he’s still not sure what their meeting means. Are they friends now? He certainly considers himself friends with the fox, but Connor’s a real live person, not just an animal whose trust he’s gained. Hank spends the rest of the night puzzling it over in his mind, and eventually gives up when his eyes start to droop closed. 

 

He’s sure it will all seem worse tomorrow, so why bother figuring it out tonight?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to share with you the only piece of world building I did that matters:
> 
>  
> 
> _Elk Nines: lives in the forest alone so he doesn't know how to speak any more_  
>  _Fox Connor: lives in the city, hears English constantly so he knows how to speak_  
>  _Elk Nines: was worshiped and wore ceremonial robes for centuries, definitely owns pants_  
>  _Fox Connor: hasn't appeared in human form to a human in centuries, has never owned a pair of pants in his life_
> 
>  


	2. An Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My incredible beta [thislittlekumquat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thislittlekumquat/pseuds/thislittlekumquat) worked her magic and I am very excited to give you all part 2!! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the continued adventures of 'Connor gets exactly what he wants' XD

Turns out what all of this means is just that Connor visits every day like normal, except now sometimes he’s not a fox but a person. He’s always happy to chatter away, but Hank is starting to notice that he’s not often the most linear in his choice of topic. He’ll respond to a question Hank had asked him several days earlier with the earnesty of someone who has forgotten what time it is. It’s hard to follow at first, but it’s charming in a way. A lot of things about Connor are charming, and Hank hates to admit just how much he’s beginning to value the time they get to spend together. It’s more than just having someone to talk to after years of loneliness, it’s more the fact that Connor seems to genuinely enjoy his company, and Hank feels the same way. A dangerous combination, but there’s not much he can do about it.

 

* * *

 

Hank tries not to think too much about Connor during the day. It’s not like they see each other aside from their nightly meeting….agreement...whatever it is. It’s not a date, he reminds himself with some annoyance, it’s just a time they both agree to see each other every night. Yeah. So Hank is definitely not wondering how Connor is faring in the downpour that’s gripping Detroit as he stumbles around his house getting ready for work one morning. That would be stupid, because Connor can clearly take care of himself and doesn’t need Hank’s dumb ass worrying about him. He’s on track to be his usual amount of late when he hears a small tapping sound on the glass door to the patio. His first thought is to look for Sumo, but he’s chowing down on his morning kibble like every morning. Frowning, Hank shuffles over to the door and finds himself looking down at a sopping wet fox despondently pawing at the door.

 

“Shit, Connor, what are you doing here?” Hank asks, pulling the door open without even thinking about it. The sound of the rain hisses in through the open space as Connor slinks into the house. He’s dripping all over the linoleum, but Hank can’t bring himself to be too mad. Not like Sumo hasn’t done worse on days when it’s pouring. It’s hard to be mad, too, when Connor looks so miserable. With his fur wet he looks smaller than usual, and his posture is shrunken down - in embarrassment or from the cold, Hank’s not sure which. When the fox remains a fox, and doesn’t turn into someone who could potentially answer his questions, Hank actually shifts into action, deciding that one more tardy citation is worth it.

 

“You stay right there, I’m gonna grab you a towel,” Hank instructs, pointing at Connor and heading off to the bathroom. He’s not sure if Connor will be offended if he grabs the towels he uses for Sumo, so to be safe he grabs the best of his own towels. Which, in all honesty, isn’t that great. Been a while since he cared enough to buy new towels, especially with the fact that there’s no one here to judge him. When Hank gets back into the kitchen Connor is sitting in an ever expanding puddle, looking morosely up at him as if all of this is his fault. “Hey now, don’t give me that look,” Hank protests, kneeling down despite the popping in his knees. “I’m gonna get you dry fast enough”

 

Connor sits still better than Sumo usually does, so Hank has him towelled down in no time. He even mops up the puddle on the floor before standing up to admire his handiwork. Connor looks more disgruntled now than anything else, with clumps of his fur standing up at odd angles thanks to the rough strokes of the towel. Hank doesn’t get a chance to laugh before Connor is giving a full-body shake that spritzes half the kitchen with what remains of the rain water that’s in his coat. Hank lets out a startled curse that melts into a rough chuckle as he wipes water off his face and looks at a now very puffy Connor staring up at him with what looks like the hint of an amused grin. Well, as close to a grin as a fox can have.

 

“Alright you absolute menace,” Hank grumbles, though there’s no venom in his voice, “you can crash here, but I’ve really gotta get to work. Let yourself out whenever you want, alright?” He figures Connor will know enough to close the door behind him when he leaves, and it’s not like Sumo’s going to mind the company. Connor’s tail gives a few half-hearted swipes so Hank has to assume he’s been understood. “Well, then, uh, I’ll be going I guess,” he says, leaning down for a quick pat to the top of the fox’s head before he gets too embarrassed. Two sets of eyes watch him as he grabs his badge and his papers from the kitchen table and heads out the door.

 

* * *

 

Work is weird, that’s for sure. On the one hand, Hank can’t stop thinking about the fact that he left Connor alone in his house. Connor looked pretty bedraggled when he came into the house, and Hank is kind of worried he might be sick. It’s so unusual for him to show himself during the day, Hank wonders if it means something. 

 

On the other hand, he’s got his hands full with work today. He’s finally located the hiking path that recent missing person’s case was last spotted on. It’s enough to placate the bigshot that’s been hounding Fowler about it. Only problem is, now this Mr. Kamski, or whoever, wants someone sent into the forest to actually  _ find _ this guy. Ridiculous.

 

Hank is pretty sure that he’s either going to find this guy’s dead body, or he’s going to find a man who doesn’t want to be found. There are really no other options, given the fact that he up and hiked into the woods without notifying even his next of kin. But despite all of Hank’s protests and Fowler’s clear dislike of the idea, he’s got his orders by the end of the day. It’s enough to spoil his mood completely, a folder with the location of the forest, a few aerial shots, and a contact number for Kamski sitting on the passenger seat as he pulls into his driveway. Hank snatches it with a grumble, heading into the house without even really thinking about the fact that Connor might still be there.

 

It’s only as Sumo pads over to greet him at the door that Hank remembers his other furry visitor from earlier. “Connor?” he calls out cautiously, his own voice sounding strange in the relative silence of the house. When there’s no response, not even the shuffle of small paws on carpet, Hank looks down and shrugs at Sumo. “Guess he must have headed out earlier then, huh?” he mutters, half to himself as he toes off his shoes. He tries not to feel the pang of disappointment that’s settling deep and low in his chest. Of course Connor didn’t stick around just to see him again. Stupid of him to assume that, all he wanted was a place to sit out the rain.

 

Hank sets the folder down on the kitchen table with a sigh and trudges to the bedroom to change out of his jacket. He can’t be bothered to wear his uniform now that he’s a “detective” and not a beat cop, but he at least puts on a button up and a jacket. He’s still got  _ some _ pride, even if the button up is usually patterned like it was spit out by the 1970s. Hank doesn’t even flick on the overhead light, his hand automatically reaching to turn on the bedside lamp instead, so he almost doesn’t notice the body on the floor until he’s right on top of it. Looking down, Hank’s heart nearly leaps out up through his throat.

 

There’s Connor, the real live human Connor, curled up on the floor on top of a pile of Hank’s dress shirts. His legs are folded up near his chest, his head resting on a pillow made up of his arms and one of Hank’s shirts all bundled up. That big fluffy tail is all curled up as well, draped across his hip and tucked neatly up towards his stomach. It looks like he fell asleep a while ago, and he looks so damn comfortable that it takes Hank’s breath away. There’s something so vulnerable about Connor like this, snuggled up like he hasn’t got a care in the world. There’s no tension in his form, his shoulders relaxed and his breathing soft and even. 

 

Hank wonders what it would be like to wake up and see this in bed next to him. Except that’s a ridiculous fantasy, so he carefully doesn’t imagine it.

 

As quietly as he can, Hank steps away, taking off his jacket and slowly setting it on the chair by the door. The last thing he wants to do is startle Connor out of his sleep, so he doesn’t bother trying to get changed. A part of his mind wants to stand and watch the slow rise and fall of Connor’s slim chest, to count all of the freckles painted across his hips and down the long expanse of his legs. Instead, Hank reaches over to the lamp, switches it off, and steps back out of the room. Sumo is waiting for him in the hallway, head cocked curiously at the change in his owner’s usual behavior. Hank puts a finger up to his lips and says in a conspiratorial whisper, “Let’s make sure not to disturb our guest, like Sumo is actually gonna understand him or some shit. But with how weird his life has been lately…

 

Thankfully, Sumo still refrains from speaking to him as they both trek out into the kitchen. Hank pokes around his fridge rather morosely, realizing that last week’s leftovers have finally got mold growing on them. Great. With those in the garbage can, the only thing left sitting in the fridge that isn’t beer or totally unappetizing is what’s left of Connor’s ground beef for the week. Fuck it, Hank thinks to himself, pulling the package out and setting it on the counter. Corner store ground beef cooks up just as good as any other. He’s pretty sure Connor isn’t going to begrudge him the fact that he has to cook it to eat it, what with Hank being human and all.

 

Hank is pleasantly surprised by the fact that he has the meat sizzling away in a skillet and smelling pretty great in not too much time at all. His ex had always told him he was a passable cook, but he’d never put in the time to get past that stage. He hums softly to himself as he turns a few stray memories over in his head, the smell of cooked meat and a few leftover spices he’d had lying around beginning to filter through the kitchen. The soft noise of the spoon scraping across the pan must have been enough to mask the sound of Connor exiting the bedroom, because he’s just standing there when Hank turns around to grab his plate off the kitchen table. 

 

Hank’s eyes catch on Connor’s form, and once again he’s speechless - thankfully with nothing in his hands to drop. He wonders, dimly, when he’ll stop getting caught off guard by Connor like this. It can’t be good for his heart, and it’s certainly not good for his pride. He must look like a proper idiot, standing in his own kitchen gaping at the other man like this. Connor’s not even naked, he reminds himself, so why is there a flush starting to rise across his cheeks? Maybe, he allows himself, maybe it’s because Connor’s decided to dress himself in  _ just _ one of Hank’s shirts, the loose material hanging off his shoulders and pooling around his hands. He’s buttoned it up, but just barely - the collar is loose and open, and Hank finds his eyes drawn to that  _ V _ of creamy skin exposed right under his collarbones.The bottom of the shirt is long enough that it at least gives Connor a bit of decency, but the flick of his tail behind him makes Hank pretty sure that decency isn’t being afforded to his ass. God, he really is a dirty old man, standing in his own kitchen getting hot and bothered over some pretty young (?) thing wearing his shirt. 

 

Connor is the one who breaks the silence, raising an eyebrow and giving Hank an amused little smirk, remarking, “I thought that not being naked might have less of an impact on you, but I seem to have miscalculated. Sorry Hank, should I change?” Hank clears his throat and averts his eyes, grabbing the plate he’d been angling for and turning to scoop the ground beef out of the skillet before it burns. “Nah, you’re fine. Just...surprised me, that’s all,” he admits with an embarrassed chuckle, “like always.”

 

Hank sets the now full plate down on the counter, and turns off the burner as he sets the skillet aside. Last thing he wants to do right now is burn down his own house. There’s the sound of bare feet on the tile of the kitchen, and suddenly warm arms are slipping under his own arms and circling around his chest. “I’m glad,” Connor murmurs, his head pressed comfortably up against Hank’s back. “I can’t say I haven’t become fond of the way you look at me when you’re surprised. Ever since that first time, when you saw me through your kitchen window, I’ve been wanting to feel your eyes on me again…” Hank can feel his pulse rising, his heart hammering away uncomfortably in his chest. He looks down and sees Connor’s hands clasped across his chest. The pinky finger on one hand is slowly moving up and down, rubbing up against the worn fabric of what is probably one of his oldest shirts.

 

“Connor,” Hank says, like it’s a warning, like it’s a question. Like he’s afraid of what it will mean if Connor presses forward a little more. Which he does anyways despite Hank’s tone, now resting his whole chest flush against Hank’s back. “I like hearing you say my name, too,” Connor says, his voice purring away and vibrating down Hank’s spine. “It’s been so long since anyone’s said my name like that. Like it means something to you.” There’s a tension in the air, and Hank can feel that this is his moment to step away. If he wants to break out of this, he needs to move. He needs to gently separate Connor’s hands and put some space between them, so that neither of them gets hurt by whatever it is that’s about to happen.

 

But Hank doesn’t do that, for some godforsaken reason. No, instead he puts his hand over Connor’s clasped ones, and strokes over one wrist with his thumb. His skin feels rough and worn against Connor’s, but there’s a soft hum from behind him that makes him think that feeling might not be all that unwelcome. And fuck it, he can’t pretend anymore. Hank has fooled himself about a lot of things, but there doesn’t seem to be any way around the fact that he’s hopelessly attracted to Connor. Annoying little brat that he is, with his charming little laugh and his sharp wit and goofy looking dimples when he smiles. 

 

“You smell amazing up close,” Connor says, and Hank can feel him nuzzling his head into the back of his shirt. That pulls a soft laugh up out of his chest, and suddenly everything feels less loaded. This is still Connor, who’s a little weird and somehow doesn’t understand when certain things aren’t quite appropriate to say. “Con, that’s fuckin weird,” Hank replies, turning around in his embrace and looking down at him. He’s pouting again, and dammit if that isn’t the cutest thing in the world. “But I’m going to let this one pass.” 

 

“And why’s that?” Connor asks, one ear quirking up curiously despite his best efforts at looking upset. Hank smiles, one hand reaching down to cup Connor’s chin and tilt it up, replying, “Because I bet you’re a pretty good kisser.”

 

Leaning in to press their lips together feels like the most natural thing in the world, and Hank doesn’t even flinch when there are suddenly soft hands reaching up to thread through his hair and pull him closer. The way Connor kisses is familiar somehow - it’s cautious at first, as their lips slide chastely together in exploration, and Hank lets his partner take the lead, waiting patiently and enjoying the contact he’s being given.

 

Then suddenly Connor is surging forward, drawing his tongue across Hank’s lips and letting his hands roam across his body. Now that Connor knows this is safe he wants more, deepening their kiss and leaving Hank breathless. Unfortunately, trying to reciprocate and explore Connor’s mouth with his tongue just makes Hank gasp in surprise and pull back. Connor whines at the loss in contact, but he doesn’t force him to stay, which is somehow reassuring.

 

“God, Connor, your teeth are too sharp,” Hank grumbles, but he can’t stop smiling despite the sharp pain where he’s nicked his tongue on one of those canines. He’s breathing hard from the kiss but so is Connor, and there’s something about seeing him already a little bit undone that has a surge of unexpected heat suddenly flooding into Hank’s gut. He wants to take this god apart and see how he puts himself back together. 

 

“I guess that means you won’t be asking for my mouth then, hm?” Connor asks, grinding their hips together unexpectedly and making Hank gasp. Connor’s eyes are lit up like that first night they saw each other; full of some unknown desire that makes him feel insignificant and valued all at the same time. “I don’t think I’m going to let that clever little mouth of yours anywhere near my dick, no,” Hank replies, his own voice sounding deeper already as he sets his hands on Connor’s hips and keeping him close. Even though he’s been the one initiating this whole time, Hank still finds himself looking cautiously at Connor for confirmation that this is okay, that he’s allowed to touch and direct Connor’s body. The response he gets is a smile that’s all too sweet for the current situation, and a satisfied little sigh.

 

“Your hands are so big, Hank,” Connor breathes out, “Big and warm and strong. I want to feel you….is that alright?” And Hank, well, how can he turn down a request like that? Some part of him is relieved and grateful for the question too, it’s easier to go into this with a clean conscience when Connor’s clearly so eager. So he squeezes Connor’s hips and says softly “Anything you want, Con. I’m all yours.” 

 

That’s clearly the right answer, as Connor’s leaning up and kissing him again, all his caution gone and replaced with an excited energy that Hank can practically feel vibrating off of him. 

 

That energy’s pulsing through Hank as well somehow, it feels like he’s got fire running under his skin as they kiss. And it’s not just from the lack of oxygen, although he’s breathing hard by the next time they part - chest heaving to try and bring fresh blood back up to his head. There’s certainly a lot of blood running south, to the point that there’s no way to hide his interest now.  Luckily, the interest doesn’t seem to be one-sided. Connor’s running clever fingers up through the unruly strands of hair hanging down into his face, brushing them back as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

 

“Not here,” Connor says, flashing Hank one of those sharp little smirks through kiss-bitten lips, “come on.” He’s stepping away then, taking one of Hank’s hands off his hips and holding it to lead him to his own damn bedroom. Hank follows where he’s led, but he can’t quite bring himself to behave - not when that fluffy tail is right there in front of him. He grabs it with his free hand, gently stroking over what turns out to be soft fur, and then giving it a playful tug.

 

“Haaaaank, come on, play nice!” Connor complains with a laugh, tail attempting to twitch out of Hank’s grasp as they walk through the door. “What? I thought I was supposed to touch.” Hank teases, chuckle dying in his throat as Connor twists around and flops down on the bed, limbs splaying out and oversized shirt draping dangerously around his thin frame. He’s laid himself out like he’s just  _ dying _ for someone to lean down and ravish him, which is clearly his intent. “I want you to touch, but in much better places,” Connor insists, voice dropping lower as he looks up at Hank, letting his eyes slip closed slightly.

 

Hank’s pretty sure he’s possessed by some urge greater than himself, because he’s never moved faster in the last ten years of his life than now, crowding over Connor on the bed and latching his mouth onto the pale column of his neck. Some part of his brain admits that he’s been wanting to decorate this skin with hickeys since that first night Connor came into the house, but that only makes it more satisfying as Connor gasps and squirms underneath him, letting out happy little exclamations at every new bruise Hank leaves. The shirt is quickly unbuttoned, and Hank is making his way down Connor’s chest, leaving phantom kisses and hickeys in his wake.

 

Once he makes his way down to the prize though, Connor’s hands are in his hair again, pulling him up with enough strength to make Hank let out a whimper of his own. “I want to see you, Hank,” he insists, face flushed and breath coming in faster than normal. “You had your turn, now it’s mine!” Hank feels a twist of concern in his gut, mostly masked by the persistent arousal but still very much present. “Oh Con, I dunno, I’m not much to look at. Especially compared to….well, you’re pretty gorgeous,” he says, gesturing helplessly at the long-limbed (he hates to admit it but, well, it’s true to call him a) god on the bed. Connor’s face twists from pleasurable excitement to an annoyed frown in far too little time, and he props himself up on his elbows to get a better view of Hank. Hank who is now awkwardly standing next to the bed and looming strangely above him, still fully clothed. Great.

 

“How dare you insult my taste like that!” Connor snaps, ears twitching downward petulantly. “I’ll have you know, Hank, I haven’t taken a lover in centuries. You’re the first person to meet my demanding standards in that long! I think I know what I like, don’t you?”

 

It’s so unlike anything Hank’s ever heard, no vague ‘oh it’s fine, I don’t mind, you still look good’ drivel he’s gotten from previous partners, that it actually snaps him out of the depressive spiral he’s on the edge of. His mouth curls up into a fond smile and he shrugs helplessly, replying, “When you put it that way, there’s not much room for argument, huh?”

 

Connor nods sharply, and reaches up to tug at his shirt, asking, “Can you take these off for me then? Please?” There’s something about the ‘please’ that makes Hank feel like he could still say no if he was really uncomfortable, and that would be alright. But he doesn’t really want to stop, so he braces himself for the inevitable discomfort and strips down. No sense prolonging the inevitable when it comes to Connor seeing all of his out of shape, un-groomed, middle-aged body. But when he turns back around to look at the man on the bed, Connor is watching him with genuine interest still, that wild energy and hunger clear in the glint of his eyes and the way he slowly licks his lips.

 

Hank is reminded for a fleeting moment that Connor is, in some part, still a wild animal. He’s feral in some sense of the word, and that should scare Hank but it doesn’t. It just makes this moment feel all the more real, because what reason would a wild god have for deceiving Hank? It seems like Connor is done letting Hank have his moment of introspection, because hands that are soft but deceptively strong are grabbing at his arms and pulling him onto the bed. Before Hank can do much more than swear quietly under his breath, he’s flat on his back and Connor is the one hovering over him now. 

 

“Your body is so strong, Hank,” Connor purrs, his fingers tracing down his collarbone, across his pecs, and over the swell of his stomach. “I can tell you’ve used it well over the years. Maybe neglected it a little, but there’s muscle here, and stories hidden beneath the skin.” To emphasize his point, Connor leans down and presses kisses against some of Hank’s more prominent scars. You didn’t get to be a police detective without getting stabbed a few times, as they said on the force, and Hank has never been ashamed of those marks. But it feels strangely intimate for Connor to be mouthing across his skin as if he’s something to be, well, for lack of a better word, worshipped.

 

The embarrassment is waging war with Hank’s arousal, but as Connor’s mouth moves lower the arousal wins out. It isn’t until Hank lets out a rather ungraceful moan and Connor looks up at him with a toothy smirk that Hank remembers their earlier conversation. “Oh no no,” he insists, “you get that mouth away from my dick!” Connor doesn’t even protest, just laughs and scoots up until their bodies are pressed together, chest to chest. The friction is enough to make Hank moan softly again, hips grinding up as he watches with some satisfaction as Connor stutters out a soft breath. For a moment, that’s enough, to just move their bodies together and enjoy the slow slide, but soon enough Connor’s impatience wins out.

 

“I want you, Hank,” Connor purrs, leaning in to nip gently at his lip. “Will you indulge me? Will you  _ fuck me _ ?” The last two words are whispered, like they’re some kind of secret Connor wants to share, just the two of them here in this bed. Hank can’t control the growl that rumbles up his throat at that, his hands coming up to knead at Connor’s ass, feeling the way it gives under his fingers. “God, yes,” he mutters, kissing Connor again until he’s forced to separate for air. Suddenly, Hank is overjoyed he’s not quite old or sad enough to have completely given up masturbation, since he’s pretty sure even gods need to use lube. He jostles Connor off of his chest just enough to wiggle over and reach into the drawer of the nightstand, pulling out the half-empty tube with a satisfied grunt.

 

“C’mon, up you go,” Hank insists, urging Connor to rise up on his knees, still very much in a straddle over Hank’s hips. “It’s been a while, so you just….let me know if anything doesn’t feel good, alright?” He used to be a fairly confident lover, but it’s been so many years, and Hank very much doesn’t want to fuck this up. Connor is watching him lube up his fingers with rapt attention though, and seems very much content to nod and let Hank get to work opening him up. Hank’s pretty sure he’s not going to last very long as it is, but when he gets two fingers into Connor and the guy moans like something out of a porno, well….Yeah, Hank’s definitely not going to last long.

 

Luckily Connor seems impatient enough to match Hank’s fraying self-control, and it isn’t long before he’s swatting his hand away. “I’m ready, I’m ready,” he pants, grabbing at Hank’s dick and starting to line himself up before Hank can even protest over the fact that he’s not sure he even owns any condoms any more. He’s pretty certain this is a special occasion, what with Connor not being human and all. And also it becomes incredibly hard to think when suddenly Connor is sliding down, wasting very little time in seating himself fully onto Hank’s lap. He’s shaking from the effort of sitting still, tail flapping agitatedly back and forth behind him and tickling over Hank’s thighs.

 

Honestly, the slight tickling sensation is the only thing keeping Hank grounded right now, what with his dick being suddenly enveloped in tight, wet heat. Just when he thinks he’s got a handle on things and won’t come like a horny teenager, Connor decides it’s time to move, sitting up and sliding back down in one smooth motion that leaves both of them groaning. Hank’s not sure what to do with his hands, fingers fisting the sheets as he fights to keep his hips from slamming up into Connor right away. He looks up at Connor then, wanting to see him, and it feels like all the breath has been punched out of his chest. He’s beautiful - mouth slightly open to pull in air, ears pressed down and twitching in concentration, and eyes half closed with his head tilted back. Connor’s the picture of pleasure, fucking himself on Hank’s dick like he was built for it, and all that bullshit Hank had in his head about taking Connor apart is just that - bullshit. Because tonight it’s Connor taking  _ him _ apart. 

 

He’s sweating and starting to pant, already feeling heat start to build down in his gut, completely at the mercy of Connor’s sweet ass and wicked hips. Hank can hear himself moaning as Connor speeds up the pace, his hands coming down to rest on Hank’s chest and squeezing just the right way to make him feel not quite as self-conscious as he usually does. It’s hard to feel self-conscious when Connor is moaning his name like it’s his favorite word.

 

Connor is taking what he needs from Hank, and it’s not long before he’s clearly starting to reach his edge, spine arching to get  _ just _ the right angle that makes him whine and shake mid-thrust. He doesn’t even warn Hank before he slams himself down hard, one more time, and comes with Hank’s name on his lips. Connor’s gorgeous all fucked out, just like Hank thought he would be, but he’s got this air to him even now, like if he wanted to he could snap out of his orgasm halfway through and still have the strength to ruin someone’s day. Hank expects him to stop moving and roll away to let him jerk himself off, but instead Connor takes a few moments to gasp for air before he’s moving again.

 

Connor’s clearly sensitive this close to getting off, and he’s making these punched out little moans every time he rolls his hips down, but he’s still fucking Hank like it’s his goddamn job. Hank should feel bad, but he’s barely coherent enough to gasp out, “Con, I’m, nnnnn-I’m gonna-” before he’s coming as well, his head snapping back as the orgasm punches through him. By the time the world stops spinning and Hank’s awake enough to blink things back into focus, Connor’s laying next to him with his head on his chest and those big brown eyes gazing up at him.

 

“That,” Connor says smugly, his voice still sounding a little woozy and fucked out, “was just as incredible as I thought it would be. Thank you, Hank.” And Hank has to laugh at that, his hand coming unthinkingly to brush through Connor’s hair and across one of his ears, fingers scratching at the soft fur. “I barely did anything, but I’m glad I could help you feel good. You certainly did the same for me,” he says with a lazy grin. He’s not going to admit it, but that was one of the best orgasms he’s had in years. The high he’s riding now is only helped by the fact that Connor doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, his legs all tangled up in Hank’s and his tail curled up innocently around his thighs.

 

Hank decides that after all this, what’s the harm in voicing his thoughts, so he murmurs, “You’re welcome to stay the night, if you’d like. Would hate to kick you out into the cold.” Connor’s ears perk up, and Hank can feel his smile spreading against his chest. “I very much appreciate the invitation,” he says, and there’s a subtle fondness to his voice that Hank hopes he isn’t imagining, “because there is nothing in this world that could move me from your bed tonight.” 

 

Hank can’t help the answering smile that forms on his face, admitting to himself that maybe, just maybe….tomorrow might not be so bad, if he gets to wake up with Connor next to him.

  
  


* * *

Epilogue:

 

Hank wakes up not to the soft press of kisses on his chest, or the warm embrace of strong arms around his middle. No, he’s woken up by an excited Connor leaping onto the bed, waving some sort of piece of paper in the air. 

 

“Hank, Hank, wake up!” he insists, patting Hank on the stomach as if that’s going to help him not be the groggiest man on the planet right now. “Wha…..What the fuck is it?” Hank groans, running a hand over his eyes in an attempt to clear the sleep from them. This wasn’t exactly the peaceful morning he had imagined.

 

“Are you going to this forest?” Connor asks, brandishing the piece of paper again, and Hank realizes suddenly that it must be from the case file he left out on the kitchen table. That damn assignment for work. “Yeah, I mean, shit, Connor, you shouldn’t go rifling through my work stuff,” he says, frowning as he realizes Fowler would hand him his ass if he found out. “It was just lying on the table when I went to see if there was food in your kitchen,” Connor retorts, rolling his eyes. “I was curious.” 

 

As is often the case, Connor seems to have lost track of where he was going with his original train of thought. Hank, thankfully, has not. “So why are you so excited about this forest?” he asks, awake enough now to remember some of the conversations they’ve had before about this topic. “Thought you were the god of wild nature in civilization or whatever. Not forests that are hours away from here.” 

  
Connor perks up again, clearly pleased both by Hank’s interest and his remembering those facts about him.  “You’re absolutely right, this doesn’t have anything to do with my powers!” he says, flashing Hank those dangerously white teeth. “But this forest is my  _ brother’s  _ forest, and I’m very excited that we get to go visit him!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! Looks like our boys are on a bit of a collision course with one another :3c Nothing could possibly go wrong there!!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and sticking with me so far through this AU! All of your kind words and support really inspire me to keep writing <3
> 
> As a bonus tidbit, here's the very first description of this Connor I ever wrote, way back when I was halfway through writing Many Names, None of them Mine!
> 
>  
> 
> _Black Elk Nines has many siblings who are also gods of different forests or different nature and their names are all Connor. The Connor he was closest with had dimples but sharp eyes and sharp teeth, and he was the god of the nature that creeps into the cracks of human civilization and pushes up through the sidewalks. The fox standing at the end of your driveway, the rustle of trees just beyond your fence. Curious. Adaptable. Familiar but different._

**Author's Note:**

> As always, a reminder I hope to one day meet Dabid Caje in person so that I may engage him in single combat to punish him for his many crimes.


End file.
